Chapter 14 #2
So far, he had managed to avoid seeing Lily Faircloth, the only woman he’d ever fancied himself in love with and whom he’d nearly married before his father had put a stop to it and whisked him off to France. Lily, who’d found herself another man without a thought.
The longer he stayed here at Longmead, the more likely it was that he would encounter Lily, for she still lived in Somerset. And that would not go well, especially if Giselle were there to hear the tale. Or worse, one of the boys heard it and chose to tell Yates of it.
As soon as they reached the first pathway, Giselle let out a little cry and ran forward to look at a bed of flowers. “You have China roses! I have never seen them in England, only in Paris. And look how lovely yours are!”
“I have very good gardeners here, I confess,” Heathbrook said.
She looked over to where Heathbrook was watching her and enjoying her reaction.
A blush stained her cheeks. “You must have found me very silly, monsieur, planting hyacinth bulbs in your town house when you had these beautiful gardens here at your home.”
“Not at all. My garden in London needed your ministrations. Here, I have enough workers to take care of the gravel paths and flower beds and hanging plants. But I’ll admit the estate gardens look better now that I plumped up the staff with several détenus in need of work.”
“You know whom you should speak to about your gardens,” she said as she approached. “Mrs. Beasley. She is as clever with plants as Mr. Beasley is with engravings. I turned to her for advice regarding my cousin’s kitchen garden in Verdun.”
“So, you were the reason we started having decent vegetables and herbs for our meals during our second year there?”
She looked away, now clearly embarrassed. “My cousin did not have good skill at gardening. Her plants often died. Thus, I helped her.”
“Good God, woman, how many things are you skilled at? Gardening, clerking, sketching, entertaining boys of all ages . . . Is there anything you cannot do?”
She flashed him a shy smile. “I cannot sew or mend or embroider. I have tried. I have a détenu friend named Eve. You may know her and her family, actually.”
He scoured his mind until an image of a jovial fellow leapt into it. “Mr. Archer’s daughter, yes. He married a French seamstress.”
“Eve is the daughter of his first wife. Unfortunately, Mr. Archer died on their way back to England.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, and meant it.
“Anyway, she has been trying to teach me to embroider, but it is hopeless. I keep stabbing myself with the needle or making the stitches crooked. It never turns out right.”
“So, you did not embroider the pretty flowers on your gown?”
“No, indeed. Eve did that. It is beautiful, no?” She held out the sides of the skirt to show more of the embroidery.
“Yes.” He gazed intently into her face. “But not as beautiful as the woman wearing it.”
“You say such lovely things,” she said with a sniff. “It is a pity you do not mean them.”
Before he could protest that, she added, “As for my gardening skills, you do not need my help with that here.” She swept her hand about. “Why, you still have asters and snapdragons blooming this late in the season. There are none to be had in London at present.”
“It’s markedly warmer in Somerset than in London this time of year,” he pointed out.
“True.” She flew ahead of him as something caught her eye. “You have fuchsias? I have only seen them in drawings.” She paused to gaze at them with such rapt enjoyment of their colorful blooms that it made his heart twist in his chest.
Then her expression turned mournful. “But of course you have them. A man of your wealth can easily afford fuchsias.”
“Why do you assume I’m wealthy?”
She eyed him askance, then pointed to the house. “Come now, you and I both know you are not poor.”
“You make not being poor sound like another of my deficits of character,” he drawled. That had never been Lily’s reaction, to be sure.
“It merely reminds me—again—that I do not belong here.” She started walking toward the nearby folly that his grandfather had built—a stone tower with an observation deck at the top.
He strode along behind her. “You made it clear a couple of weeks ago that you aren’t exactly poor yourself,” he snapped as he caught up to her just outside the tower.
“There is a great distance between being comfortable, as Maman and I are, and being rich, as you clearly are.”
“Does it matter so much to you?” he asked hoarsely. It had mattered to Lily more than he’d expected.
“It should matter to you. There are expectations, rules, customs among rich English lords that I could not begin to know or understand.”
“I don’t care.” After gazing about to be sure no one was nearby, he pulled her into the room on the tower’s first level, then tugged her into his arms. “All I could think about during our drive to Somerset was how much I wished the two of us were alone, so I could do this . . .” He kissed her hair.
“And this . . .” He scattered kisses over her cheek and up to her ear.
“And this . . .” he whispered before taking her lips with his.
For several delicious moments, she opened her mouth to him, letting him sip and take and explore, letting him tangle his tongue with hers so he could enjoy the damp heat of her, the little moans she made low in her throat, the wonderful way she threw herself into it . . .
Until she seemed to think better of it and drew back to whisper, “You promised not to give me any secret kisses if I came to Longmead. You swore it on your honor.”
“Did I?” he lied. “I do not remember that.”
He bent as if to kiss her again, and she murmured, “Heath, please do not—”
“Kiss you, ma belle?” He caught her head in his hands. “Caress you? Because that is impossible, when I know you want me, too.”
“I wanted you years ago,” she rasped as he pushed her back against the stone wall. “What good did it do me?”
“That was a different time and situation. Being mine could do a great deal for you now.”
“Being your what?” she asked, her eyes searching his face. “Your mistress?”
Damn. He could never ask that of her. “My faux fiancée.” He kissed her neck to avoid looking into those all-seeing eyes. “My temptation.” As he whispered the words in her ear, he swept his hand down to her skirts. “And, I hope, my friend.”
She must have realized his words were sincere, because that last gained him the response he wanted. She melted in his arms, sliding her own about his waist, not even protesting when he dragged her skirts slowly up her stockinged legs, so he could gain access to her sweet mons.
Not that he gave her a chance to protest. He was too busy devouring her mouth as he sifted through her curls below to find where she was warm and wet and oh so soft to his touch.
But when he fingered her there, she jerked her head back to stare at him with wide eyes. “What are you doing, my lord?”
The “my lord” gave him pause. But not enough to make him relinquish his goal. “Offering you pleasure. Making sure you feel la petite mort for at least once in your life.” He had this visceral need to prove to her how blissful it could be if she ever gave herself to him.
Which would ruin her.
No, he wouldn’t think about that.
“What is this ‘little death’ you speak of?” she whispered.
“I’ll show you.”
He found her pearl and stroked it, watching with pure masculine pride as her eyes slid closed and she murmured, “Bon Dieu du ciel . . .”
“ ‘God in heaven’ cannot save you from me, sweet Giselle,” he whispered against her cheek. “I mean to give you a taste of what it could be like between us . . .”